photo by Debby Hudson for unsplash
I drop the green glass bowl
on the stone kitchen floor, drop
my mother’s call when I dip
into the valley, drop yoga to hide
under GG’s quilt. Lisa finds
the pipe her brother dropped
by the toilet; he loses
his personality, his brain matter,
his kindness. Shawna loses
her left breast. Elyse, her uterus.
Anthony’s spouse slips
out the backdoor. Easter morning,
one more chair pushed
under the table. Tombs alive
in corners of our homes: slice
of green glass on the windowsill,
ultrasounds tucked in
a wooden box, a tiny
ceramic urn; only ever
dust to dust. Days before
Jesus died, Mary
rubbed his feet with oil
smelling of honeysuckle and musk,
wine passed over his hungry
lips. Go forth grasping
however you can.
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Thank you for this. So timely. Swap out a couple of the names for people who are close to me and it hits home in an even more intimate and immediate way. This will make its way into my Easter sermon.